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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048565">Speechless</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonwanderer/pseuds/Moonwanderer'>Moonwanderer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Uncle [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, Mentions of Smut, Mild eroticism, Napollya - Freeform, Nothing explicit, Partnership, Romantic Fluff, Sharing a Bed, Short &amp; Sweet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:02:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>466</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048565</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonwanderer/pseuds/Moonwanderer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon finds some art in blissful post-coital haze.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Uncle [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Speechless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just a random sweet moment set after Napoleon gives Illya his watch back but before the final scene on the terrace.<br/>Don't tell me they didn't have sex then.</p><p>I am not a native speaker, so mistakes may be found.<br/>I do not own the characters, etc., etc.,...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Napoleon rises from the sheets with a soft, silky rustle, and walks to the little mahagony table, with a nice soreness spreading across his body. The whiskey decanter shines like amber in the rays of the afternoon sun. He pours himself a generous amount, and lifts the crystal glass slightly to admire its content. Thicker than oil but not quite like honey, perfect in a way it almost resembles art.</p><p>Speaking of art.</p><p>The room he stays in radiates luxury and rich elegance not everyone can afford. Soft, thick rugs, expensive paintings, -all fake but one, if someone, Napoleon knows- antique furniture, and a comfortable king-sized bed.</p><p>Oh yes, the bed.</p><p>The usually so neatly made bed is nowhere near so neat and clean now. On the top of the rumpled sheets, on his stomach lies Illya, naked save from the waist down to the two-third of his long thighs, a piece of duvet covering his white skin. The Russian is hugging a pillow, face resting on it, sleeping, peaceful.</p><p>Napoleon forgets about the whiskey he is holding and just watches, getting caught up in the moment.</p><p>The blinds are drawn, cutting the sunlight filtering through into spots, and thin, glowing stripes. Amongst the dim, mellow colours golden spots shine playfully, touching the floor, slicing glowing pieces from the furniture, and illuminating Illya’s shoulders and the hard planes of his wide back.</p><p>There is something clearly artistic in this. The whole scene gives off strong Rococo vibes. The colours, the bed, and the nakedness, which is somehow way more thrilling knowing that Illya wears only his watch and nothing else. Fine eroticism at its best. Natoire, or maybe Boucher.</p><p>He puts down the glass without having a sip and tiptoes back to the bed. Slipping under the blanket he touches the Russian’s shoulder, light as a feather, with the grace only a thief’s hand is capable of. Illya’s skin is no longer flushed but nicely cool, scent so clean, free from any unnecessary cleaning products, in a unique, almost raw way, and it hits Napoleon somewhere deep inside.</p><p>He can’t help but caress, so carefully across the scarred back, admiring the strength lying in these perfect muscles. A light chuckle startles him „awake”, and he pulls his hand back quickly, a reflex etched too deep to be ignored.</p><p>A pair of perfect blue eyes watches him intently, and Napoleon blushes, slightly though but still. Illya is watching him, eyes so bright and beautiful, gaze so honest and tender, his messy blonde strands glowing golden in the soft sunlight. He is smiling, a real smile for him only, blissful and relaxed, and suddenly Napoleon realises Illya is the man for he is willingly leaving everything behind.</p><p>And for the first time in his life, Napoleon is speechless.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The two names mentioned are Charles-Joseph Natoire and Francois Boucher, both painters in the Rococo manner.<br/><br/>Please, feel free to leave a comment!<br/>Negative comments or comments of displeasure are also welcome, you can help me improve by pointing out my mistakes.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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